A Little Fire in the Storm
by Joyeee
Summary: [Complete] How the Fellowship spent their time on Caradhras, an expansion on the book. Includes all the Fellowship members, with a cameo from Bilbo.
1. The Way

Credit where it's due: I do this for pleasure (weeeheeee!) not profit. I don't own anything, not even all of this story, since I used many of the spoken lines of the Fellowship from the book during their time on Caradhras. Also, thanks to Chloe Amethyst, who beta'd the story!

One more thing. (I know, _get on with it already!_) Readers: **_Can you tell who is/are my favorite character(s) by this story?_** I tend to give them what I deem the best/coolest parts and I tried very hard not to do that here. ALL reviews/comments/suggestions welcome! Okay, here we go!

**Chapter 1: The Way**

"Shelter!" Frodo heard Sam mutter as the Company squeezed into the niche in the cliff side. "If this is shelter, then one wall and no roof make a house." Bill nodded dolefully in agreement while Sam led him along to the deepest corner of the alcove. There the hobbits sank down with the pony as a poor shield from the biting wind – after Sam's profuse apologies to Bill, of course.

Frodo sighed in sympathy as he settled in next to Sam. He did not need to see Merry pulling his cloak closer, or hear Pippin's chattering teeth, or recall how the entire Company had slowed to a snail's crawl over the course of the night, to know how frozen and tired they all were, for he felt it himself. Still, the storm was not what really dampened his spirits. Adding to the cold and weariness in his limbs was a slight chill in his heart, as he recollected what he had overheard earlier that day – Gandalf's suggestion and Strider's ominous answer.

--_There is another way, and not by the pass of Caradhras: the dark and secret way that we have spoken of._

--_But let us not speak of it again! Not yet. Say nothing to the others, I beg, not until it is plain that there is no other way._

All along the journey so far, it had been either the wizard or the ranger advising them, leading them, protecting them. What were they to do now, when the two guides disagreed? Frodo did not like how grim they both seemed when speaking of the "other way." If the Big Folk were uneasy about it, it was certain to be dangerous. Yet Caradhras was also forbidding. Even now the whirling snow was forming an icy wall around them and Frodo did not think he and the other hobbits could advance much farther on their own feet. Still, the gloomy edge in Gandalf's voice when he spoke of that other way had embedded itself firmly in Frodo's heart. He hoped the wizard would not have cause to insist on taking it.

"I hope the storm lets up soon," Frodo found himself murmuring. "I hope . . ." The right words would not come.

"You hope you've not stuffed fifty seed-cakes in your mouth when you only wanted five," Sam finished Frodo's sentence. Frodo looked toward the gardener in surprise. He had not realized that Sam would hear his words – though, come to think of it, they _were_ crowded into an awfully small area. A hesitant little smile formed on Sam's attentive, earnest face. "As Mr. Bilbo might say," he added. Frodo could not help but smile in return. Although Sam's words said nothing directly of anyone's worries at this point – no, they were rather (and most unfortunately) short of seed-cakes – it was a perfect way to express Frodo's thoughts.

"Dear old Bilbo." Frodo let his thoughts wander back to Bilbo's comfortingly cluttered, _warm_ study in Bag End. "What do you think he might be doing right now, Sam?"

"Well . . ." Sam paused thoughtfully. "While we were in the elvish country he was ever writing away in that great big book of his, so I suppose he'd still be at it. Mr. Bilbo knows an awful lot of stories, not to mention he's even been in adventures himself, so he'd certainly not be short on material."

"Writing," Frodo repeated wistfully. "Yes, writing of wonderful adventures and great heroes." Great heroes who actually did something useful, instead of dragging friends into danger, huddling in tiny cracks on mountain faces while trapped miserably in terrible snowstorms, and hiding behind poor mistreated ponies to avoid freezing to death, with no inkling of which direction to go in next.

"Not that it matters much what I think, Mr. Frodo, but I wonder how in the stories, it never tells about the little things – like if the people got bitten by bugs, or how just one strap of a pack can dig in so deep!" Sam grimaced, rubbing ruefully at his shoulder. "And just how'd they last so long with so little food? They must have gone hunting, or found gardens along their way, though the tales don't mention it. They could always find it in themselves to face whatever trouble turned up. Can't say the same for myself. Even if a horde of orcs charged at us now, I'd stay put here; I feel that tired." Sam smiled through a wide yawn and his voice softened with the thickness of drowsiness; Merry and Pippin were already snoring lightly. "And, well, did they ever feel low? Of course, people like . . . like Beren, for example, went through some terribly awful times, but what I'm talking about is – well, nothing too discouraging, really. Just low in spirits, when they were lost or in bad weather . . ." Sam yawned again, " . . . like we are right now."

Frodo was startled; Sam gave voice to his exact thoughts. He looked at the other hobbit, who was now nodding off, and thought about what Sam had said. Yes. The stories never mentioned moments like these, but their Quest was quite like those grand tales he heard from Bilbo and the Elves of Rivendell, wasn't it? And in the stories, the heroes – Beren son of Barahir, Túrin son of Húrin, Eärendil son of Tuor, just to mention a few – generally turned out all right, one way or another. Perhaps Frodo and his companions could, too.

He turned his head to the side as weariness overtook him, and noticed Gandalf seated a little apart from the rest of the Company. The road under his feet had demanded Frodo's constant attention and he had not had a good look at Gandalf all night. Now the wizard's back was turned toward the rest as he sat there, solid and wise as ever, probably planning how best the Company could proceed. Somehow, the sight of that familiar broad-brimmed hat and billowing grey cloak, even through all the whirling snow, brought a sudden ease to Frodo's mind. Gandalf was there. One way or another, it seemed that everything would turn out all right. Though the rest of them might not see the path before them now – and though he doubted if a mere Frodo son of Drogo could prove equal to travelling it – Frodo was quite certain, as sleep enfolded him, that his old friend could find the way.

* * *

_There is no way_, Gandalf thought dourly, his bushy eyebrows bristling even further than usual beyond the rim of his hat. _There is simply no way._

Knowing that the storm precluded any attempt at lighting a pipe, Gandalf had resisted a sore temptation to dig out his stash of pipeweed. What he had not resisted was a bout of ill humor. He had pondered the Company's options in irritation for quite a while now, but thinking up a _good_ course to take was more impossible than forming even the simplest of smoke rings, what with all these blasted gusts of snow and wind blustering about. If Caradhras did not abate – and it was as likely to do that as the Witch-King was likely to take up a jolly job as a foot-tapping fiddler at Butterbur's – the Company would simply have to face the caves of Moria.

At that moment, Gandalf felt a tap on his shoulder. He knew, without turning, that it was Aragorn.

And this he also knew: Aragorn was not here for any pleasant chat about what they would all eat for the next meal, or the finer points of the art of smoke rings, or the beauty of the icicles – some of which had started to form on various members of the Company, by the way.

No.

Aragorn was here to discuss the road to take.

Confound it!

_Aragorn may be a man of steel, but I most certainly am not,_ Gandalf thought. _At this point I am nothing more than a very old, very tired man. Valar, sometimes I really must question your choice to send us as aged Men instead of Elves._

He paused a moment, then shook his head._ No, I do not ask for the constitution of an Elf, convenient as that may be. I do not even ask, though it is by no means an unreasonable wish, the chance for a good smoke. All I ask at this moment is just a mite of time to myself in the midst of all this cold and misery. That's all!_

He could imagine Manwë's response. A simple, resounding "No," pronounced firmly and slowly of course, with an omnipotent echo besides, through teeth clenched in august irritation at the sheer banality of his request.

Despite the situation, the corner of Gandalf's mouth twitched up.

Mentally prepared at last to cope with Aragorn, Gandalf turned and found Boromir there also. The wizard's thick eyebrows now positively jutted straight out of his skin, stiff as porcupine quills. As if a stubborn, argumentative ranger were not enough, the hypercritical, overly cynical, entirely disrespectful Doughty Defender of Gondor had come as well!

"I suppose you want to discuss the road we are to take," said Gandalf, trying his very best to conceal his vexation and exude amiable sagacity – or sagacious amiability; he did not really care which.

Unfortunately, it seemed his best was not good enough. Boromir dropped his gaze and suddenly discovered something extremely fascinating about his bracers.

Fortunately, at this point Gandalf did not very much mind seeing the Doughty Defender of Gondor a bit unnerved.

Unfortunately, Aragorn remained undaunted.

_Far from surprising,_ Gandalf reflected wryly. Gandalf was starting to wonder if the future king's sense of responsibility was too great for his own good - even if he _was_ Aragorn son of Arathorn, the heir of Isildur and Elendil, former right-hand man of both the Steward of Gondor and the former King of Rohan, leader of the Dúnedain, future King of both Arnor and Gondor, and the sole hope of all Men.

But back to the matter at hand.

_What should I say to convince Aragorn of the necessity of taking the other way? For certainly Aragorn is just about to say that there is still a chance of crossing the pass of Caradhras._

"There is still a chance of crossing the pass of Caradhras, Gandalf," Aragorn plunged straight to the point. A small part of Gandalf was pleased that he had predicted Aragorn's words with such precision. The rest of him inwardly groaned as Aragorn continued relentlessly, "I would that we do not yet give up our current course."

During the day's long trudge, the wizard had formulated several excellent explanations and expostulations as to why they must turn to Moria, rationalizations whose every word positively burst with astounding sense and unquestionable logic. Somehow, though, it seemed that Aragorn would find a way to argue, no matter how eloquent and elaborate a speech Gandalf presented. So at this moment Gandalf chose, rather, to invest great emphasis in an astute observation of the Company's present physical condition, psychological state, and surrounding environment.

In other words, he was going to state the obvious. The Company was exhausted, disheartened, and walled in by a snowstorm. Gandalf mentally nodded, pleased to have decided upon this simple course of action. Surely even Aragorn could not dispute these empirical facts. Yes, he was going to state the obvious.

Unfortunately, Boromir beat him to it. Apparently the bracers had lost their fixating charm the moment Aragorn spoke. Boromir had gained an impatient edge in his gaze that would not be suppressed.

"This," he ground out, "is a blizzard, Aragorn. And I still say that the Enemy has something to do with these howling winds and rolling stones. But whatever the case, the snow whirls so thick we cannot see even ten paces ahead. One needs not be a ranger to understand that this storm will not end anytime soon. It is quite unnecessary for us to cross the Misty Mountains here. There is the perfectly functional, _easy_ terrain of the Gap of Rohan to the south, from whence we may progress quickly and safely to Minas Tirith!"

"We have discussed this before, Boromir," Aragorn replied, his countenance showing weariness – and the tiniest sign of annoyance, Gandalf thought with amused curiosity. "We cannot be sure of that road. Even now the servants of the Enemy may be lying in wait for us there, and we cannot be certain of Rohan's aid."

"Cannot be sure? Cannot be certain?" Boromir repeated incredulously. His hand flew to his temple as he continued, "You doubt even Rohan?" His voice spiked in volume. "Do you mean to suggest that we put our trust in the whims of the weather rather than the honor of Men?"

The force behind the outburst hit them all harder than any buffet of Caradhras could ever have done. Even Boromir seemed surprised. Nevertheless, his jaw maintained a determined set. An awkward silence followed.

Gandalf wondered briefly, and not for the first time, if he should try to smooth relations between the heir of the Kings and the heir of the Stewards. Then he remembered all the things he had to do already, and of course, there was also Aragorn's sometimes-usefully-overblown sense of duty to consider. So, also not for the first time, Gandalf decided to leave Aragorn to manage his future internal relations by his own conscientious self. (A more pressing concern to Gandalf at this moment was that this pause would have been long enough for him to take a good, deep draw on his pipe and blow a smoke ring of considerable intricacy.)

It was the ever-responsible Aragorn who first found something to say that would break the awkward silence. "No," he replied slowly. "I am a Man as well, Boromir, and I would believe that we are made of stronger stuff."

Another tense pause. (_Another chance for a smoke ring, lost!_) Boromir's hand dropped absently from his brow.

"But at any rate," Aragorn continued, "difficult as it may be, this Caradhras pass is safer than the route of which you speak. No servants of the Enemy can hunt us here."

Gandalf coughed. "I am not so sure of that." Boromir's chin tipped up, as if to say, _See? Even the wizard agrees. _"The Enemy uses all sorts of spies. We risk discovery no matter which path we take." Boromir's chin lifted even higher. "So at this point our concern is merely moving forward, which seems more and more impossible on this mountain." Gandalf spared Boromir a glance and wondered fleetingly if even Elrond could match the intensity of that particular expression on Boromir's face, the one that crowed _Ha! I said it would be so_.

"Just consider Moria, Aragorn," Gandalf urged. Boromir instantly deflated.

Aragorn hesitated. "We have come this far," he replied at last. "Let us give it one more chance, and learn more of what lies ahead before we choose the way." Gandalf assented with a small nod.

Boromir looked back to the little jumble that was the rest of the Company, one Dwarf and one Elf seated by a pony behind which four hobbits were not even visible, all walled in by the storm. He turned back to Aragorn with a skeptical frown, his hand going absently back to rub his temple. "And just how do you propose to learn more of our surroundings when our limbs are half-frozen and we can't budge from this crack in the mountain?"

Aragorn inclined his head slightly toward the space behind Boromir. Boromir turned, indulging only for a split second the notion that a benevolent dragon had arrived, its sole and especial purpose to aid the Company of the Ring – to melt all the snow with a well-placed breath of fire, or to level the cursed heights of Caradhras with a swipe of the tail, or perhaps even to serve kindly as the Company's ride to wherever they wished to go. But only for a split second. After all, Boromir might have been frustrated, but he was not insane.

However, what he did see behind him baffled him nearly as much as a magnanimous dragon would have. There was the elf, crouching right behind his shoulder, looking for all the world as if he had been perched in that spot the entire time. Boromir had just _seen_ him sitting with the little ones an instant ago! He nearly lost his balance, recoiling from the abruptness of the elf's appearance. Legolas smiled cheerily and placed a hand on the man's shoulder, steadying him. Despite the elf's gesture of goodwill, Boromir's glower persisted. For one thing, the dull throb in his head that had been bothering him intermittently for several days had started up again. For the other, he was absolutely certain that he had caught a spark of amusement in the elf's eyes, not to mention the fact that he had been surprised into nearly falling over in the snow – from a stationary crouch, no less – and that was no action worthy of a warrior of Gondor.

"Legolas, if you would please scout . . ."Aragorn began.

"You need not even ask," Legolas interrupted. Boromir wondered distantly why he looked so . . . _gleeful_. "We have covered the astonishing grand total of almost two leagues in the past two nights. What are a few steps farther?" A hapless look came over Aragorn's face. Legolas paused with an expression that peculiarly reminded Boromir of when he wanted to correct a fault in Faramir's battle stance without injuring his younger brother's pride. He seemed to have read the look accurately, for the elf finally could not help adding, "It would still be nothing."

_Nothing?_ Boromir's mind repeated, momentarily unable to grasp the concept that their trek up this mountain could be considered nothing by anyone, even an elf. Legolas seemed to understand the reason behind Boromir's bewildered look, for he started his next words with a conciliatory tone (though a childlike eagerness quickly took over). "Fear not! If there are spies lying in wait, I will spy them out. Fell voices, falling stones – whatever dangers lie ahead, I shall return with a full report." Grinning in farewell, Legolas stood swiftly and glided past the men and the wizard to vanish around the bend.

Yes. Glided. Boromir saw that the elf's feet left no mark in the snow. He stared at the trail – or rather, the lack of a trail. Then he looked toward the point where Legolas had disappeared, and then, back down at the non-existent trail.

"He is not accustomed to such a pace as we have kept," Aragorn sighed. Having heard this before only about individuals who could not travel as _quickly_ as the rest of their group, Boromir only shook his head slowly while Aragorn spoke on. "To be fair, I am surprised he has not commented on it at all until now." The ranger's gaze turned inward, as if recalling far, fond memories. "The Valar know, certain other elves I have hunted with would certainly have . . . _mentioned_ it long before."

Boromir slowly looked up at the ranger. Yes, he knew that some things were easier for elves than for Men – a paltry number of trifling things, really – but this fact had never seized his attention quite so sharply before he noted, just now, that the elf floated over snow. (And this was due to no lapse on Boromir's part, since the elf usually walked behind them all as rearguard.)

"Never mind. I'm rather glad he has this chance to stretch his legs a bit," Gandalf remarked.

Boromir slowly looked toward the wizard. Yes, Gandalf's voice had been completely calm, but the way his form shook, he must have been suppressing either laughter or great pain. A small part of Boromir's mind observed, rather sourly, that it must be the former. Acutely conscious of his aching knees and sore calves, understandable even for warriors of Gondor after so hard a night's journey, Boromir repeated, "Stretch . . . his legs?"

Aragorn sighed and cleared his throat. "Well, since we have a brief respite now, I suggest we follow the hobbits' example and get a little rest until Legolas returns." Still looking a bit dazed, Boromir followed Aragorn to rejoin the hobbits, Gimli, and Bill. At least his headache was receding.

Gandalf watched them go, musing wryly, _Trust Aragorn to make even rest into a chore._

_To be continued . . ._

Please review!


	2. Of Second Breakfast

Credit where it's due: To Mr. Tolkien, especially concerning the spoken lines of the Fellowship during their trek on Caradhras. To Chloe Amethyst, my beta-reader! And to all readers. (And, dare I hope, reviewers? If you review, please answer this: **_Can you tell who is/are my favorite characters by this story?_** I tend to give what I deem the best/coolest parts to them and I tried very hard not to do that here.)

Enjoy!

**Chapter 2: Of Second Breakfast**

The wind whistled, blasting snow across the countryside in a storm unusually heavy for the Shire. All was well, however, with the residents of Hobbiton, safe and cozy and (most importantly of all) well fed within their underground homes. In one of these homes, Bag End to be specific, Bilbo Baggins and his young cousin, Frodo Baggins, had just enjoyed a five-course supper that included cream of mushroom soup, rich and smooth and steaming hot (an everlasting favorite among hobbitfolk). After the main meal there were, of course, a couple of refreshing desserts to fill up the corners, as Hobbits say: fresh-baked pies of blueberry and sweet potato, winter treats that were common but nevertheless treasured in Bag End.

Now they had retired to the study. A great fire crackled merrily in the hearth, heating Frodo's toes as he reclined in his favorite couch, a soft blanket draped over his comfortably full stomach. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the aroma of cinnamon from the mug of steaming apple cider cupped snugly in his hands. Best of all, Bilbo's voice seeped through the warmth, painting a vivid scene behind Frodo's closed eyes of a shining figure charging at a towering Lord of darkness. Frodo smiled in his half-snooze when the challenger, terrible injuries and deep despair notwithstanding, vanquished the evil enemy in a final courageous stand. He heaved a satisfied sigh as the hero reunited with his beloved and the story wound to a close. He always loved to hear Uncle Bilbo's tales.

For a while after, all that could be heard was the friendly crackle of the flames. In his own couch on the other side of the hearth, Bilbo started leafing through one of Frodo's journals, searching for more material for his stories. _Stories of wonderful adventures and great heroes_, Frodo thought to himself. It seemed that someone laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder but, still enveloped in dreams of grand quests, he dismissed the idea, knowing that the chairs stood too far apart for his uncle to reach over. _Wonderful adventures . . . great heroes . . . _

"Frodo?" Bilbo's voice was distant.

_Great heroes who did something glorious, something . . . useful. _Frodo heard the windowsills bang open, blown inward by an icy gust that swept through the room and across his cheek. _Useful, instead of dragging friends into danger . . ._

Bilbo's voice came through the haze again. "Is this all, my boy?"

Frodo's brows knitted. He hated to disappoint Bilbo. "I'm afraid so, Uncle . . ." It was difficult to speak, as if his lips had been chilled to stiffness.

"Well now, my boy, I don't think much of your diary." A few more pages flipped. _Something useful, instead of dragging friends into danger . . . _"Snowstorms on January the twelfth: there was no need to come back to report that!"

Again, it seemed that someone was shaking his shoulder, but Frodo continued to ignore it and concentrated instead on making his frozen lips form coherent words. The room's warmth had vanished, replaced by cold of a paralyzing intensity. "B-But I wanted . . . rest . . . and sleep . . . Bilb-bo."

"Now, Frodo . . ." It was not Bilbo's voice anymore. Familiar, but not quite Bilbo's; no, not Bilbo's at all, and it was strangely urgent. "Frodo?" Frodo wondered why the voice was so insistent.

"Frodo!"

An especially hard jolt rocked him. His eyes flew open and he suddenly faced the dark grey shadows of a nighttime snowstorm instead of the well-known study in Bag End. His slumber had been heavy but not refreshing, for he had to fight his way back to full awareness. Boromir's anxious voice sounded beside him. "Frodo?" Frodo blinked and looked about, trying to regain his bearings. The other hobbits were sitting up and rubbing their eyes, but beside them was a small hobbit-sized hole in the snow. He realized that Boromir had lifted him out of the drift that had piled up around him as he slept. Concerned faces crowded about.

Boromir set Frodo down, sweeping snow from the hobbit's shoulders. Gimli chuckled, relief edging his robust cheeriness. "Come, lad! High time to awaken!"

"Can you move your fingers?" Aragorn questioned. When Frodo could only muster a few feeble, uncertain twitches, Aragorn took the hobbit's hands in his own and began to rub some warmth back into them.

"Th-thank you," Frodo stuttered. "H-how l-long have I sl-lept?"

Gandalf's face appeared in Frodo's view as the wizard bent to take a closer look over Aragorn's shoulder. "Not even half an hour," he answered, "but we thought it best to wake you, as your lips were turning a bit blue. Boromir feared the worst."

Boromir turned to Gandalf. "This will be the death of the halflings, Gandalf. It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads," he emphasized with a significant glance at the other hobbits. Gandalf followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes in concern. Merry and Pippin brushed a thick layer of snow off their heads as they stood, then pulled their trembling hands into their sleeves. Sam had unconsciously wrapped his arms about himself as he hovered around Frodo and Aragorn. They were only slightly better off than Frodo, who had given the rest of the Company a minor fright when he refused to awake. In a voice that was softer but somehow more pressing, Boromir continued, "We must do something to save ourselves."

Gandalf's eyebrows bristled. As with the conversation he had overheard between Gandalf and Aragorn, Frodo sensed that this was merely a continuation of an earlier debate.

"A small fire would do us more good than harm at this point, whatever spies may be about," Gimli reasoned with a placating look at Gandalf. "Long did my father Glóin teach me the art of kindling flame. I could light a very small one in the corner there, where there is a little shelter from the wind."

Gandalf sighed. "Let us not yet resort to fire. I hope to conceal our presence still, if possible. In the meantime there is something else that may give us a little warmth."

He took three labored steps through knee-deep snow to Bill, dug out his pack from under the pony, and began rummaging through it, mumbling to himself as he tossed out several items impatiently. "Utensils . . . a horsehair brush . . . hm, what's that doing here?" Bill eyed Gandalf warily as the wizard tossed out a small firecracker. "Odd bits of paper, a spool of thread . . . ah! Here it is!" Though they were already watching intently, the rest of the Company perked up at this excited exclamation of discovery, leaning forward to see just what Gandalf had up his sleeve (or rather, in his pack). "My pipe! Well, one of them, anyway."

The Company slumped back down. A moment later, Gandalf's own expression fell as well. "Much good the pipe has done," he grumbled. Nevertheless, he tucked it under his cloak with considerable care and peered into the pack again. "Hmm . . . Interesting . . . never thought to see _that_again . . . Ah, there's that mug I was looking for! Can drink my water properly now. All right, here we have it." Gandalf pulled out a small leathern flask and handed it to Boromir. "Give them this. Just a mouthful each – for all of us."

Boromir groaned inwardly even as he accepted the flask. Brandy? Yes, such a drink could warm the body, but in cold this intense, he doubted that it would even buy a few minutes' worth of heat for one of the hobbits, never mind larger beings. Not to mention that there were nine of them and only one small flask. His head began to pound again, and he raised a hand to his forehead. By the Steward's staff, why the wizard would not allow a fire was beyond him! Boromir had to _argue _for the best interests of the Company, against other members of the Company, and what's more, the very leaders of the Company, the ones who were supposedly the wisest and most experienced! There was the spat over bringing firewood up the mountain, the debate over waking the hobbits from sleep (sleep that, to Boromir, seemed induced by hypothermia), and now the dispute about using the wood they had taken all the trouble of lugging along. Boromir was truly beginning to believe himself the Company's only consistently sensible member.

Unfortunately, Boromir had not kept his groan entirely internal. Gandalf shot Boromir a look both defensive and accusing.

Ever the capable healer-supplier-leader-peacemaker, Aragorn continued warming Frodo's fingers with one hand, took off his scarf and tossed it to the badly shivering Pippin with the other, and intervened in Gandalf and Boromir's impending clash, all at once. "Try the drink. It's not what you think." Boromir raised his eyebrows, adding Spontaneous Poet to the list of Aragorn's simultaneous functions.

"No, it is not," Gandalf confirmed Aragorn's words rather huffily. Suddenly Boromir felt himself attacked both by the spoken words and by Gandalf's piercing gaze. "It is very precious." _Unlike any drink you could provide the Company_, the wizard's glare seemed to insinuate. "It is _miruvor_, the cordial of Imladris." _No, not whiskey or brandy – do not even think to compare them to this! _"Elrond gave it to me at our parting." _What did he give you, now, hmmmmm?_ "Pass it round!" _He gave you nothing? Exactly what I thought!_

Boromir frowned suspiciously, though it hurt his head more to do so. Reading the expressions of others had always been his brother Faramir's strength, not his. Was the wizard invading his mind somehow? Was he unwilling to confront Boromir directly in front of the others, and therefore using some devious trick to insult him in this craven manner? That would be just the sort of thing a wizard would do. Come to think of it, not only wizards used such tricks, for how many a tale was told in Gondor about elf-magic? And if elves could manipulate good, honest folk, then a man raised by elves– well, it went without saying that he'd not have the best interest of Men in mind! Boromir's hands accepted the flask of their own accord, while he questioned, for the thousandth time since agreeing to this joint quest, the wisdom of his choice during the Council in Rivendell. How could he let such a powerful thing as the One Ring fall into the hands of such deceitful people! He should have insisted that it go to Gondor! He twisted off the cap of the flask with a strength that was almost savage. A strange scent emerged but he hardly noticed it, focused as he was on his headache and his anger.

But . . . but no. Gandalf probably had such sneaky abilities, but he would not use them on fellow members of the Company . . . would he? Despite the pain, Boromir shook his head, and was quite surprised when the throbbing actually faded. Pausing, he glanced back at Gandalf only to see that the wizard's scowl still followed him, and he half-expected the mental barbs to resume. Yet the voice sounded no longer. Blinking away the last vestiges of confusion, he turned toward the hobbits with the flask, offering it first to Frodo, who was closest.

Attentive as he was to his master, Sam had not missed how Boromir squeezed his eyes shut and how his hand moved reflexively to his head. It was disturbing, how much it reminded him of Frodo. Oh yes, it did not happen often, but Sam had seen Frodo fight the Ring's temptation a few times. His master would stare at the thing or stare off into the distance, fingering it all the while, until suddenly he would shut his eyes and clench the Ring tightly, as if to smother its evil influence. These apparent headaches had troubled Boromir for quite a while, and they only seemed to get worse. True, it could be simple headaches, but somehow Sam doubted this was the case.

It seemed that Gandalf had not missed Boromir's sudden daze either, nor Aragorn, nor Gimli. All watched closely as Boromir held out the flask. Frodo hesitated slightly as he accepted it, focusing on the warrior's face instead of the proffered drink. Distinctively uncomfortable, Sam could do no more than keeping one eye on his master and one on the Gondorian warrior.

Yet the tension passed, as such moments had passed before. Sam let out a breath. A clean fragrance caught his attention and diverted his gaze to Frodo and the flask. Sam was glad to see Frodo straighten as soon as he swallowed a little, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from weary shoulders. The flask went round to Merry, then Pippin, and then Sam, with the same effect. Sam found that as soon as the warm drink touched his lips he felt revived beyond what the short sleep had done for him. He even found himself thinking that he could trek the rest of the way through this mountain easily, snowdrifts or no. _Wonderful folk, Elves! This beats anything out of the Green Dragon for refreshment and is a match in taste, and that's saying much! _The rest of the Company had their shares too – even Gimli, whose rather suspicious look transformed slowly into a great, satisfied grin. Each found his strength and hope renewed.

A small smile crossed Gandalf's face. Of course, he was still ruffled – it remained impossible to smoke, after all – and so he made quite sure to pull the corners of his mouth down rather quickly and grimly.

"Quite marvelous!" Pippin declared, happily oblivious to the myriad changes Gandalf's expression. "I feel as if I've slept on a down bed with a warm quilt, and eaten a good, decent breakfast into the bargain!"

"I suppose you still wouldn't mind second breakfast?" Merry ribbed good-naturedly. Pippin, however, cocked his head seriously to consider this, though it took all of half a second for him to reach a conclusion.

"No, that would be capital, especially as we did not _really_ have any breakfast at all. Though I don't suppose we shall ever have second breakfasts on this journey."

"In that you are unfortunately correct," Merry agreed solemnly. "But just think, at least we do have a little dry food with us. Imagine if you were Bill, Pip! Then you wouldn't have anything natural to eat at all while we're on this mountain!"

"Downright unfair for the poor thing," Sam muttered. "Here we are feeding him food that's unnatural to him, and him mistreated so badly in the past. We should be able to do better for him."

"You'd be quite right to feel sorry for me, Sam," Pippin laughed. "I thank you for your sympathy!"

"Beg your pardon, but I was talking about Bill!"

"He knew that," Merry said with a glance of mock reproach at Pippin.

"In any case we all deserve much more for meals than we've been getting, don't we?" Pippin glanced toward Aragorn, who was seating himself beside Gandalf after returning the flask. "It looks like we won't move on for a little while at least, so there might be time for a bite or two. In fact," Pippin nearly cheered, "the drink was not nearly so substantial as we're used to, but if we count that as a first breakfast, we may have our second breakfast today!"

"I suppose we could, Pip," Merry chuckled. "Let's go through our packs a bit, shall we?"

"Here's forks and knives already!" Pippin brandished a fistful of utensils. "I say if we have second breakfast, we do it right, in a properly civilized manner."

"Very well, Pip," Merry agreed cheerfully. "We shall make it as proper as is possible in the middle of a snowstorm."

"As proper as is possible without a stove to cook on," Sam grumbled. "What would the Gaffer think if he knew I ever laid a table _this_ way – without even a table?"

"Still, the choice of food is not half bad," Frodo said, hiding his amusement behind a soothing tone in order to assuage Sam's misgivings of propriety. "Dried fruits and nuts, and some biscuits from Rivendell. And I'm sure Strider still has some of those dried smoked meats flavored with honey."

"Dried fruits, dried meat," Pippin laughed. "A proper second breakfast to follow a first that was entirely liquid!"

Merry paused rummaging for a moment. "I say, Sam, we hobbits might not have anything for the pony, but what of the Big Folk?"

"That's right, Sam!" Pippin exclaimed. "Why don't you ask? It wouldn't surprise me at all if Strider could concoct something, at least to keep Bill's strength up. Or maybe Legolas would have something – he seems to get on quite well with Bill and with animals in general. And what about Gandalf? A pony's hunger cannot be too great a problem for a wizard."

"That's what I'm afraid of, that it's too _small_ a problem for him!"

"By the way, where is Legolas?" Pippin wondered, looking all about.

"Probably off scouting, as usual," Merry reasoned. "Did you see him float along on the snow? As easily and smoothly as a bird on a breeze!"

"It couldn't hurt to ask, Sam," Frodo encouraged.

"No, that it couldn't," Sam agreed. "And Bill really does need some nourishment after all this climbing about."

As the others prepared for a small, quick meal, Sam struggled through the snow – it was much easier to _think _about continuing amid a storm than to actually plow through snowdrifts, after all – and tugged at Gandalf's cloak. "Beggin' your pardon, but I don't suppose you'd have anything for Bill, would you sir?"

Gandalf's eyebrows stiffened. Yet perhaps they were already over-exercised that day, or it just might be that Gandalf was simply, truly touched rather than irritated by Sam's concern. In any case, the gleam in Gandalf's eyes softened. "No, I have nothing in particular for Bill, Sam. Yet the cordial of Imladris should revive him as well, for the food and drink of the Elves would not harm any good, living thing. Here, take this dish; you may pour some for him if you like."

Bill indeed appeared considerably less mournful after lapping a few mouthfuls. The storm's fury did not lessen and the wind blew ever stronger, keening in their ears angrily, but for the first time since they began their ascent of Caradhras, the Company was at peace. With Gimli's aid, Aragorn sorted through supplies, refastening packs in preparation to move on. Boromir cleared some snow from the pathway into the little alcove. And although it was a small, dry meal after a mere mouthful of drink a few minutes earlier, the hobbits finally enjoyed a second breakfast.

_to be continued . . ._

Thanks for reading. Pretty please review!


	3. Warmth

Credit where it's due: To Chloe Amethyst, my wonderful, insightful, encouraging beta reader, woohoo! To Mr. Tolkien and (especially in this chapter) to the LOTR film crew! And of course, to all the readers and reviewers! Speaking of which, all feedback is Most Craved, but _the_ question is: **_Who do you think is/are my favorite character(s) by this story?_**

Just in case, here follows an explanation of four Valar and a Maia, drawn from the marvelously mythical Valaquenta in _The Silmarillion_. (Much better to read Tolkien yourself, but to paraphrase the wolf, the better to help you read my story, dear reader! Mwahaha!)

Manwë: The leader of the Valar, ruler of all Arda, "dearest to (the One) and understands most clearly his purposes." The One is like God in that he was the original being and created everything.

Nienna: Sister of Námo and Irmo (aka Mandos and Lórien). She is"acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered . . . those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope . . . she brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom."

Aulë: husband of Yavanna; creator of Dwarves; smith and craftsman of the Valar, associated with the earth, gems, precious stones and metals

Yavanna: wife of Aulë; loves all things that grow in the earth, brought about the existence of Ents to guard plants

Olórin: wisest of the Maiar. He learned from Nienna "pity and patience." Also known as (drumroll) Gandalf!

In this chapter, more than just dialogue is straight from the book, I'm afraid. Hopefully it weaves the story a little closer to the original.

And finally, a wink (or two) to film fans in this chapter, but it's not so overt that it's definitely AU for the book. I just couldn't resist!

* * *

**Chapter 3: Warmth**

Those unfamiliar with the ways of the Elves would have called the _miruvor_ magic, for those single mouthfuls kept the Company warm for quite a while. Nevertheless, Caradhras seemed determined to block their progress. The snow did not relent. It whirled about them thicker than ever, and the wind blew louder. Much to Aragorn's dismay, one by one the companions started shivering again. It seemed that the mountain itself wanted to force the Company to another road. Boromir's words came to mind.

_I wonder if this is a contrivance of the Enemy . . . Let those call it the wind who will; there are fell voices on the air; and these stones are aimed at us._

Aragorn sighed. Boromir was not the only one to give credence to the notion of a . . . force, for lack of a better word, directed in particular against the Company. By rationalizing the apparent hostility of Caradhras and reducing it to mere, random weather whims, Aragorn had achieved his purpose in quieting, at least for a while, the fears of the others. Yet in truth, he was more inclined to agree with Boromir's assessment than he would like to admit. The rarity of such heavy snowstorms this far south; the rockslides so near despite the Company's efforts to keep quiet; the shrieking gales that sounded like voices even to Aragorn's pragmatic ears; and most suspicious of all, how the storm's strength waxed and waned eerily in accordance with their efforts to forge ahead. Together, these factors suggested powerfully that an enemy was indeed intent on barring the Company's way.

And yet, to give up this slow, cold, stormy path was to choose another, a darker route whose greatest evil Aragorn feared far more.

He did not quite have Elven hearing, but he heard the hobbits' teeth chattering. They huddled together, a hardly distinguishable heap of blankets and curly hair. Gimli and Boromir both hunched over, attempting to keep a little body heat close. Even Gandalf looked chilled, his form not much more than a bundle of cloak topped with his hat. Without realizing it, Aragorn tried to rub some warmth back into his own arms.

Boromir shared Aragorn's concern over the cold, but ever a man of forthright action, he had already concluded that something must be done about it, soon. Very soon. They could not merely sit there while waiting for Legolas to return from scouting. When even Aragorn showed signs of cold, the ranger himself did not notice it, but Boromir did. He needed no further justification to speak. "What do you say to fire?" he asked suddenly. "The choice seems near now between fire and death, Gandalf. Doubtless we shall be hidden from all unfriendly eyes when the snow has covered us, but that will not help us."

Gandalf's eyebrows perked up like spines on an angry porcupine. At times he really could not believe the nerve of his traveling companions. Pippin and his second (and third, and fourth) meals. Boromir and his insistence on disagreeing with everything Gandalf and Aragorn said (even if that led Boromir to contradict himself). Come to think of it, even Aragorn could be rather overly responsible, straight-arrow, and by-the-book, not to mention stubborn. (At this point, it did not matter one whit to Gandalf that he actually shared many of these traits.) Why did they insist on exasperating him like this? Really, what was the education in Middle-earth coming to? Did they not realize how rude it was to provoke others to rudeness? Gandalf disliked being grumpy, for it ran entirely against how _he_ was brought up, Ages ago (literally). At times he privately mused that Manwë must have added this dash of irascibility to his earthly form on purpose. After all, Nienna's all-encompassing compassion was well and good for those who had killed their own kindred or broken oaths sworn to the Valar, but on a daily basis it could get rather too . . . weepy, especially for someone like Manwë, who bore the burden of carrying out the will of Eru, the One, through punishments as well as rewards. Gandalf would not have been surprised at all if Manwë was just plain fed up with all the tears and the pleas for mercy on the day he sent the Maia to Middle-earth. Yes, give the powerful Maia forms of old men, give them back pain and headaches like any other aging mortal, and command them to save the world. Ah, but for Olórin that would not be enough, oh no. Let us give the student of Nienna a short temper; it will make his days in Middle-earth so much less bearable.

But back to Boromir the Doughty Warrior of Gondor, who started off this cantankerous train of thought in the first place. _You want fire?_ Gandalf thought with rather malicious relish._ I'll give you your fire. I'm sure such a doughty warrior as you would not mind being burnt to a crisp for the greater good!_

This time what surfaced in Gandalf's mind was not Manwë's reaction, but Nienna's. It was her Look, overwhelmingly simple and quiet, full of empathy and forgiveness, with eyes shining in boundless sympathy for both him and the objects of his irritation.

With that thought, Gandalf's shoulders (and his eyebrows) slumped down.

"You may make a fire, if you can," he answered. He could practically see Nienna's sorrowful, long-lashed eyes sparkling with benevolent tears even as he said it. _All right, all right, _he mentally grumbled. _So the "if you can" was a bit snide._ He sighed and conceded to his companions, "If there are any watchers that can endure this storm, then they can see us, fire or no."

Gandalf did not quite know how he expected the others to respond to this long-awaited concession on his part. Perhaps he thought they would cheer. Perhaps he thought they would glance sidelong at him as they set about the task, grumbling under their breath all the while that, well, they _knew_ Gandalf would have to agree to fire sooner or later. Any of these effects would have sent his eyebrows poking straight out again. What he certainly did not expect was an absolute _lack_ of reaction. Boromir immediately turned toward Bill to unload wood and kindling. Gimli went looking among the packs for a tinderbox, while the hobbits roused themselves to gather around Boromir, helping him to pile the branches together. Gandalf paused. The Company – dare he even _think_ it? – was working as a team, and not only that, but they were being _efficient_!

It occurred to Gandalf that this entire madcap quest might just work after all.

Quickly all the wood was gathered in a small pile, but Gimli was still rummaging in his pack. Aragorn's tinderbox was near at hand, however. He offered it to the dwarf, but after taking a look at the contents, Gimli returned it, grinning good-naturedly. "You might as well try it," he admitted, glancing at the shivering hobbits, though he was careful that they did not see him doing it. "Still, my wager is that in this weather and with that half-frozen wood, you'll need flint of special Dwarven make – if even that will work. Not to worry, I'll find my flint shortly and we'll do what we may." Aragorn nodded, turning toward the branches.

True to Gimli's word, even after several strikes, Aragorn was unable to kindle a blaze. Despite the bitter cold, he felt unnaturally warm, and wondered absently at this. He felt the gaze of the hobbits on him, could see in his mind's eye how their expressions dimmed from hope to expectancy, and finally to unease. He felt, also, Boromir's gaze, and again the warrior's words sounded clearly in his memory: _a contrivance of the Enemy . . . aimed at us_.

Aragorn grimaced. Boromir was probably right. The mountain stood against them, whether of its own will or as a mighty weapon of an even mightier foe. Mordor seemed too far for this to be Sauron's work, but what if Saruman directed the storms? Come to think of it, perhaps it was Sauron after all – Gandalf seemed to think it possible. Perhaps the Enemy already knew of this pitiful little band, and suspected it. The Dark Lord commanded orcs, trolls, and even Men from the South. That was not even considering the Ringwraiths, especially their leader the Witch-King, or the dark resources and foul powers of Sauron himself. And what did he, Aragorn son of Arathorn, command? Not the people of whom he claimed to be King. Not even the son of their Steward. No one. Nothing.

A slight pressure built at Aragorn's temples. Who was he to claim command of anyone? Here he was, a ranger for nigh on seventy years, and he could not even start a fire as his companions froze. _Apparently I can care for myself all right, but cannot do anything for others at all. It's a wonder there are still Rangers roaming the North, with me leading them all this time. And as for King – a grand King I'll make, unable to start a fire in my own hearth!_

The flint slipped from his hands. _What fool am I to presume that I even have a chance, trying to lead people headlong against the Dark Lord?_

Something flashed in the periphery of his vision, wrenching his focus back to the present.

It was only Frodo, huddled in a blanket, standing by his shoulder. The hobbit had picked up the flint-piece and was offering it back in one outstretched hand. "Is th-there anyth-thing we c-can do t-to help-p, Strider?" Frodo asked through chattering teeth. His hand, Aragorn saw, was rough and scratched from travel in the wilderness, crimson from cold, and shaking badly.

_You command loyalty._

Aragorn could not recognize the voice he could virtually hear, saying these words in his head. It sounded remotely like Gandalf's, though it was deeper, somehow more ancient. When he quickly glanced toward the wizard, Gandalf's gaze was directed toward the companions, but his manner was curiously absent, for his eyes seemed to be focused beyond them.

Aragorn turned back to Frodo and accepted the flint-piece back, with a simple "Thank you."

_You command the loyalty of friends, which is far better than the Enemy's control through fear and torment. And you have only to look at this Company to see what powerful friends they are. Dwarves, elves, and noble Men, and even a wizard! And of course, hobbits! One of whom has just returned to you your flint. _The voice actually seemed to chuckle. _Yes, hobbits!_

Suddenly Aragorn felt himself very . . . _present_, as if he had just escaped back to reality from a long, exhausting dream. Yet he was very much aware, ready again to tackle the matter at hand. He could not help a small, wry smile. _Here I am, thinking of malicious spirits and disembodied voices – and all the while unable to start a fire!_ _The only way this day could get worse is if Arwen caught me striking flint and tinder over and over, with nary a spark in sight. I'll never hear the end of it . . . just like the story about how she came upon a particular man in the woods, a warrior so distracted that she was able to put a swordpoint to his throat as easy as you please, and ask, "What's this? A ranger, caught off his guard?" . . ._

"Ah, here we are," Gimli rumbled, holding up a small stone box and tossing it toward the hobbits. "There! Hold it please while I find the flint-piece."

The box arced through the air toward Pippin, who reached up with both hands. It would have been an easy catch, except that they had all underestimated the power of the cold. Pippin's fingers would not obey, and before anyone quite knew what was happening the box struck Pippin's hand in passing and bounced off a jutting rock to pitch toward the edge of the mountainside.

Someone shouted, or perhaps it was several someones. Boromir dove for it, dropping to hands and knees to avoid tumbling over the edge himself. Aragorn was not as close but also lunged to catch the precious tinderbox before it dropped into the chasm below.

They caught it at the same time. There the tinderbox rested, suspended above a fall of unknown depths by the firm grip of both their hands.

A tense silence settled, heavy and smothering as the snowstorm itself. The hobbits shifted uneasily, glancing between the two men. For their part, Aragorn and Boromir simply stared at each other, each finding his own mixed uncertainty and determination mirrored in the face before him. To Frodo they suddenly seemed very alike, even beyond the hair and grey eyes. They seemed almost as long-lost brothers.

A branch plunged into the snow lengthwise, right beside the two men. It was not exactly how Aragorn had imagined it a few moments ago, but yes, this day had just gotten worse for him.

"What's this? A Ranger unable to start a fire?" asked a merry voice.

Boromir whirled, caught off guard for the second time in as many hours.

Aragorn inwardly groaned. The exact rhythm and intonation of the words were all too familiar to his ears. And no, he would not hear the end of this slip either, for Legolas was sure to reciprocate Arwen's tale with this one. And not only to Arwen herself, oh no, but also to the brothers Elladan and Elrohir, and thence to all of Rivendell. In all likelihood, even the kindred of Lórien would hear of it. _Yes, Estel,_ Aragorn thought._ That's the way to impress your beloved's august grandmother and her noble husband._

Despite himself, Sam let out a nervous chuckle.

Legolas grinned at the hobbits from where he had materialized next to the men. He twisted slightly to shift a bundle of wood from his shoulder to the grip of one hand. "The drifts only increase in height for nearly half a league from here, but aside from the storm there is no danger near us. The choice is yours, to try plowing through now, or to take a full night's rest and start afresh tomorrow."

As little as it was, the new information gave Aragorn something to attend to and allowed him to resume his outward calm. Boromir took only a moment longer to regain focus. It was a much quicker recovery than the last time the elf had appeared out of thin air next to him, and he permitted himself a small congratulation at the improvement. Aloud, he considered, "The continuing snow will make the drifts higher by morning."

"Yet we have not the strength now, I deem," Aragorn said. "If some danger threatened, it might be better to press forward, but as Legolas senses no nearby enemy, I believe a rest would do us all good." Boromir seemed about to protest, but he saw the relief on the hobbits' faces and subsided.

Legolas continued. "In any case, I scouted further and gathered some pine wood." – _Exactly how much further?_ Boromir had to wonder, for it had been some while since the Company passed the altitude at which trees grew. "The oak we brought is better suited for long, steady burning, but we'll start the fire with the pine, as it's better for quick heat." _How did he know Gandalf would allow - ?_ Boromir did not even bother to mentally finish the question. Legolas was already crouching in the niche with the hobbits, adding branches to the pile with cheerful efficiency.

Boromir sighed. He had seen many a curious creature on this journey – elves, dwarves, halflings, not to mention a long-lost ranger of the North claiming to be heir to Gondor's throne. In the beginning all their strange ways made him tense, challenging him in astounding ways that even the uncertainty of war and the strain of battle could not match. Gradually he had accustomed himself to them all. Still, he found himself wishing his brother were along sometimes. He suspected that these companions would never cease to amaze him, and in his life, being surprised usually heralded disaster.

Strange. He did not mind their surprises now.

Not today, anyway.

* * *

Whether or not Nienna's sensitive, caring countenance pervaded his mind, Gandalf was going to vent.

_What do they think they're doing over there? There's no way that wood's going to light properly in this storm! Leastwise, no natural way. No, probably not even Óin and Glóin, working together, could do it! Aah, they'll want_ _me to kindle it next! A wizard to kindle a fire for them! I, Gandalf the Grey!_

"I'm very sorry!" Pippin blurted out. Gandalf turned, surprised to find Merry and Pippin right behind him.

"Whatever are you talking about, Peregrin Took?" the wizard demanded.

"Well, you were just saying, Gandalf, about having a '_wizard_ to kindle the fire . . . '" Merry began. Gandalf decided he would really have to be more careful about accidentally muttering aloud the things he wanted to keep internal.

Pippin continued, "We wanted to come along to help dear old Frodo, but . . . " he fidgeted. "We haven't helped really."

"Normally we're quite good at lighting fires and such, too, though the fighting and scouting'll never be our specialty, so to speak," Merry elaborated. "But now we can't even help light a fire, and everything on this Quest is left to you Big Folk – "

"Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took!" Gandalf set a firm hand on each of the young hobbits' shoulders and leaned closer, his eyes glinting severely. Merry and Pippin did not know what to expect – perhaps a tongue thrashing, or even something more serious. After all, Gandalf _had_ thought of melting all the butter out of Mr. Butterbur, and roasting him over a slow fire, and what's more, announced it in front of the whole Council back in Rivendell.

No such thing happened. Gandalf merely shook his head sadly. "Now listen very carefully, both of you," he admonished. But it was intent, earnest, and though his voice was stern, it was not at all angry. "You know even better than I that Quests are not the usual business of your folk. Seedcakes and tea, and birthday parties, gardens and –" Gandalf chuckled wryly " – pipeweed are your business. So speak not of being unable to do your part. Indeed it is we Big Folk," Gandalf sighed, "who are not doing – cannot do – our part. And so, unfortunately, the burden has fallen on your cousin's shoulders."

Merry nodded solemnly. Pippin just stared at Gandalf, wide-eyed.

"Yet in a way it is fortunate," the wizard continued. "For of all creatures in the world, I do believe it is the _hobbits_ who might just accomplish this perilous task that even the Mighty fear to undertake. And are you four not some of the best of your folk? Frodo spoke of great heroes in his sleep." A fleeting sadness clouded Gandalf's face, but then his eyes twinkled. "Well, who is to prevent you all from being great heroes? In your cousin's hands, Middle-earth has a chance." The corners of the wizard's mouth quirked up. "And meanwhile, we Questing Big Folk can attend, for once, to things like kindling fires. Come, it's time for a bit of warmth."

So saying, Gandalf stood, leading Merry and Pippin back to where the others were.

"Blast the storm! The wood is frozen. It's all good for naught, not worth the trouble of lugging along!" Gimli glared balefully at the large heap of branches. He did not stop striking flint and tinder, however, and his efforts produced some sparks, which was more than anyone else had managed. Gandalf and Aragorn tensed. They could see where this would lead.

"Not all the wood. You could try nearer the pine branches at the top, if it is not too far a reach," Legolas suggested. Given the fact that Gimli could not, indeed, reach the pine branches – though this was due to the pile's diameter, not its height – and considering that elves loved wordplay, Gandalf thought Legolas's tone was perhaps just a smidgen too helpful.

"I have _tried_ striking at your precious wood," Gimli insisted, exasperated. Aragorn's brow furrowed for a moment.

Legolas raised an eyebrow. Gandalf belatedly realized the possible double meaning – or was that triple? – in Gimli's words. "And so far nothing has come of your attempts," the elf replied, his voice edged with the chill of autumn's final winds. Aragorn's brows furrowed again, and stayed that way. Boromir put a hand to his forehead and exhaled a silent, long-suffering sigh, while Merry and Pippin anxiously tightened their grips on Gandalf's cloak. Sam frowned anxiously. And Gandalf certainly did not miss the way Frodo absently fingered the spot on his jacket beneath which the Ring lay.

"Could you do better, Master Elf?" the dwarf challenged coldly.

"Perhaps I could, Master Dwarf," the elf answered coolly.

_Time for a little warmth, indeed_, Gandalf thought. He stooped to pick up a branch. He had hoped that interaction would overcome the historical (and familial!) enmity between dwarf and elf, but the journey had only worn frigid civility to uneasy friction and verbal barbs, not always veiled. That he ever hoped these two might befriend each other, even on the most superficial level . . .

He could hear Manwë's voice in his head again, chuckling.

Somewhat defensively, Gandalf reflected, _Well, at least the sparring is only verbal. There was a time when the two of them would sooner come to blows than speak directly to each other; they each thought the other not even worthy to look down upon. In a way, one could even say that their relations have greatly improved._

Manwë's chuckle exploded into outright laughter, which merely goaded Gandalf to continue his dogged defense. _Gimli was actually about to let Legolas try (however rhetorical his challenge was). And Legolas said "Perhaps." Not "Of course," not "How could I not do better than you, Dwarf?" He said, "Perhaps." Very good first steps, I should think._

Manwë was still laughing. And was that Yavanna, and Aulë as well, giggling and chortling away in the background?

_Ah, Olórin, if only you knew . . ._

Gandalf decided to ignore what he deemed to be overactivity of his imagination (which was most assuredly due to not smoking for so long). Holding aloft the branch he had chosen, he cried, "_Naur an edraith amen!_" and thrust the end of his staff into the midst of woodpile. At once a great spout of green and blue flame sprang out, and the wood flared and sputtered. It was a small satisfaction to Gandalf that his feat inspired a smile in Aragorn (who had seen him do this before), a delighted wonder in Legolas, awe of varying degrees in the eyes of Boromir and Gimli, and a chorus of amazed murmurs from the hobbits.

"It's like dear old Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday party!" Frodo remarked, entranced by the swirling colors.

"Prettiest fire I've ever seen, and probably the prettiest I'll ever see!" Sam whispered, eyes wide in wonder.

"Now I've seen everything, Merry," Pippin asserted. "Blue fire. And green!"

"Indeed," Merry answered, his gaze still riveted on the tall flames. But then, slowly, he turned to look at Pippin. "Better hold onto that thought about having seen everything, Pip."

"Why? We've seen men, dwarves, elves, and I won't mention all sorts of creatures that are better left unmentioned . . . "

"I took a look at the maps in Rivendell, and we're not even close to halfway on our journey. You'll see more yet! As for me," a mischievous twinkle came to Merry's eyes, "I'll say I've seen everything the day that I see you, Peregrin Took, don a suite of armor and take up a sword!"

"Goodness, how dreadful a thought! You shouldn't even say such things, Merry," Pippin reproached, but laughter tugged at hislips until he could no longer resist. "What a fate to forecast for a friend! If it really happens, it will be all your fault, and I wish the same ill-fortune upon you."

"A fine pair of knights you would make!" Frodo exclaimed, and he and Sam joined in the laughter.

Aragorn chuckled. But in despair or cheer, Aragorn remained ever vigilant, and he had noticed Gandalf looking all around after lighting the fire. He also knew the wizard's prickly side. And he knew not to confront that side directly.

"It is well," Aragorn said, directing his gaze at Boromir and Gimli. "This fire of Gandalf's gives neither smoke nor very bright light, and is perfectly suited to give warmth without taking away concealment. Tonight we will finally have a proper rest for tomorrow's travel. We have heat and light, and yet no enemies will see us."

"If there are any to see, then I at least am revealed to them. I have written _Gandalf is here_ in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin," Gandalf said gruffly. Yet the others caught the wink of his eye.

Despite Gandalf's words, the Company cared no longer for watchers or unfriendly eyes. Their hearts were rejoiced to see the light of the fire. The wood burned merrily; and though all round it the snow hissed, and pools of slush crept under their feet, there was warmth within the Company at last.

_-Fin-_

* * *

There ends my first foray into unleashing my stories on the world. Please let me know what you think!

I am first and foremost a character nut. How was the characterization? True to the original? A bit too _X-Files-_ish? And _the_ question: **_Who do you think is/are my favorite character(s) by this story?_** I tend to give him/them what I deem are the best/coolest parts, and though I certainly showed off my favorite character here, I hope I shone the light on others too, and kept him far from stealing the show.

Humor is not my forte, and I felt the ending was rather . . .anticlimactic. Still, this story was never meant to be high drama anyhow. The pseudo-metaphysical parts practically wrote themselves – I certainly didn't plan on having voices in their heads and all! I just wanted to write the Company during their journey together in a relatively day-to-day light, and show that even during the "slow," "humdrum" days of their travel, the undercurrents of temptation and conflict still ran strong, for each and every one of our beloved heroes.


End file.
